


I feel numb beneath your tongue

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Kink Meme, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, a tiny dose of dirty talking, angry kiss, argument kiss, kink meme fill, les mis kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Meme Fill for:<br/>Their first kiss occurs during an argument. In the heat of the moment, Enjolras smashes their lips together, and then, suddenly, they’re all over each other, refusing to let go.</p><p>Their faces were only inches apart and they were both breathing heavily. Enjolras hated the confusion the man caused him, he hated the way his heart raced frantically in his chest. “Stop it,” he hissed, “I fuckin' hate everything you do, Grantaire.”<br/>Grantaire smiled in an almost tender manner. “I don’t believe you.”<br/>Enjolras shut his eyes as if he was in pain. “That’s not a problem, you hardly believe in anything. But I hate everything that you do, I wish you’d never show up here again.”<br/>Grantaire’s smile grew slightly more teasing than it was. “You only need to ask me to leave, Enjolras. Come on, why don’t you do so? I will eagerly do anything to keep you pleased.” The words were almost painful for Enjolras, he couldn’t bear it anymore, he couldn’t bear the sight of these blue eyes fixed in his own dark ones. “Show me how you passionately you hate me, Enjolras,” breathed Grantaire hoarsely. “You need only show me.”</p><p>Consider yourself warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I feel numb beneath your tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this might be reaaally awful smut, but I loved the prompt and then this came to my mind and I just had to write it, if it is ridiculous in any way I would appreciate your honest and constructive criticism so that I could try to fix it in any way possible. Thank you. *throwing this and flying away on my Nimbus 2000*  
> Please consider yourself WARNED :S
> 
> Also I HATE when Enjolras is nothing but an asshole, and I'm so sorry if it seems like that in this story, but he's just confused and out of his mind.

**_'Cause there's no drink or drug I've tried_ **  
**_To rid the curse of these lover's eyes_ **  
**_And I feel numb, beneath your tongue_ **  
**_Your strength just makes me feel less strong_ **

****

**_Lover’s eyes, Mumford & Sons_**

****

It is not only the words he uses, but the way he speaks as well. It is much more than his cynical remarks and his nihilistic comments, much more than with a simple combination of words he make a room go completely silent, everybody around dumbstruck and speechless, it is more than the awkward glances, the hurt eyes or the fury in their faces, it is more than these lips say.

 

It is the way the say everything. It is all about the empty, cold blue eyes, the bitter, sarcastic smile that never reaches them, the apathetic shrug of his shoulders at the effect his opinions have leaded at, the frozen glances at a subtle raising of his eyebrow. It is his vital _need_ to show how he doesn’t care, the way he disgraces every holy or sacred thing, every belief or idea, smashing it and murdering it, as simply as he drinks from his bottle. It is the terror that comes from the realization that even when pissed drunk, it’s _him_ who speaks and not the wine. It is the knowledge of the fact that he would say these words again and again, even if his own, pathetic excuse of a life was in danger.

 

Enjolras doesn’t hate the man, Enjolras doesn’t hate people unless they threaten other people’s fundamental rights and dignity. But he hates everything he does, everything he says, he hates the teasing look in those expressionless blue eyes, he hates the painful way they are fixed on the table or in the liquid he’s drowning his misery in, he hates the way Grantaire confuses him so deeply, the way he, a man of wise actions and passionate conviction, cannot figure another man out.

 

The meeting at the upper floor of the now deserted café they have been using the past couple of years had been remarkably successful that evening, Combeferre had managed to gather signatures from the medicine school, a field in which Joly had succeeded as well, though in a smaller extent. Courfeyrac had prepared an extremely interesting and stirring speech, with Jehan’s help, and Enjolras, quite satisfied, had stood on the table and spoke passionately. His encouraging words were much appreciated by his friends. All, apart from one.

 

Grantaire was sitting in the corner of the room as usually, a bottle of gin in front of him, his eyes empty, dark circles under them. He was the odd one in a room of passionate hearts, dark curly hair, unshaven cheeks, a leather jacket Bahorel had been particularly jealous of, and the same, sarcastic smile on those lips which had the capability of being awful. Those thin, unbelieving lips, Enjolras would rather stare at than hear speaking, for that matter.

 

He had opened those lips and released a vomit of nonsensical drunken rambling which always made Feuilly roll his eyes and Bossuet throw him another bottle of beer in order to shut him up. It was always ineffective. Once Grantaire began, it always was impossible for him to finish.

 

The meeting was over and everybody left. Enjolras wished to stay a little more, after all nobody would bother him in the café at such a late hour, but the drunkard most definitely had different intentions.

 

Enjolras, as much diplomatically as was possible in his anger, made a brave effort to ignore the other man’s presence.

 

“I could only be grateful to have the opportunity to keep you company for a little longer, Apollo,” Grantaire slurred, clearly making another steady step to push Enjolras off his limits.

 

Enjolras looked positively worn and tired. He stopped tidying his papers, and turned his eyes to Grantaire. The cynic was once again mesmerized by the hyperrealistic appearance of the revolutionary leader. He had spent most of his hours in the Musain studying the man, and by now he could certainly welcome the return of the well known biting on the side of his lower, red lip which occurred every time he was extremely pissed off, and the unconscious wave of blond curls which happened every time he wished to clear his chaos of a complex mind he possessed. His voice was much more furious than Grantaire had ever heard it come out in the past. “How could you say such things, today?” he asked.

 

Grantaire raised his shoulders. “Quite easily, in fact. The fire in your eyes inspires even the emptiest of souls to speak wittily.”

 

“It most definitely happens to fail when it comes to _your_ soul, if you even possess one, that is.”

 

Grantaire leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. Enjolras couldn’t help but notice the movement on the hollow of his neck as he spoke, the way his long fingers rhythmically tapped the wood. “You are woefully mistaken,” he muttered, “you clearly confuse the fact that I wish to survive instead of selfishly declaring myself a hero after committing suicide for what lies between the legs of our dear lady Patria instead of deciding myself to either end my own life or continue living it miserably, with lack of devotion for you. That is very unfortunate indeed.”

 

Enjolras hit clenched fist on the table, Grantaire forgot how to breathe at the sight of a pulsating vein on the leader’s throat, pale skin making perfect contrast with the red sweater. “Enough,” he shouted, “Not everything is laughable, not everything exists for your miserable self to mock, Grantaire. You are not going to fuck up anything else, not our principles, not our ideas, not the things we believe in. You will only insult us in such a way again over my dead body.”

 

Grantaire got up and tottered a few steps towards Enjolras. “I should never be alive myself to do so if in any way you happened to die, Apollo,” he whispered. “But doing anything over your body sounds like a promising dream one shouldn’t beg to see at his sleep, bearing the danger of offending your sacred and well kept innocence even in his thoughts.”

 

Their faces were only inches apart and they were both breathing heavily. Enjolras hated the confusion the man caused him, he hated the way his heart raced frantically in his chest. “Stop it,” he hissed, “I fuckin' hate everything you do, Grantaire.”

 

Grantaire smiled tenderly. “I don’t believe you.”

 

Enjolras shut his eyes as if he was in pain. “That’s not a problem, you hardly believe in anything. But I hate everything that you do, I wish you’d never show up here again so that my mind would finally find some rest.”

 

Grantaire’s smile grew more teasing. “You only need to ask me to leave, Enjolras. Come on, why don’t you do so? I will eagerly do anything to keep you pleased.” The words were almost painful for Enjolras, he couldn’t bear it anymore, he couldn’t bear the sight of these blue eyes fixed in his own dark ones. “Show me how you passionately you hate me, Enjolras,” breathed Grantaire hoarsely. “You need only show me.”

 

And on the next moment the world turned around and they forgot how to breathe and ice and fire became one, pain giving its turn to Enjolras’ deep confusion as he threw startled Grantaire on the wall behind them and pinned his wrists on it, while pressing his red, wet lips on the thin, dry, cynical ones. Grantaire couldn’t shut his eyes, his bewilderment and fixation on the wonderful features of the revolutionary, of a stray golden lock getting between them, of the long, trembling eyelashes and the perfect marble skin, being above any logic.

 

It was a struggle, it was a fight and it was breathtaking. Enjolras’ fingers got tangled in Grantaire’s dark curls and pulled his head closer, his lips acted as if they were trying to keep away from the venomous mouth of the cynic, yet his teeth were biting a lip and caused a small moan to be released, tongue was hungrily tasting another tongue, Grantaire thought he would die if he wasn’t already dead, for it was completely impossible to be living such a thing, Enjolras couldn’t think of anything, he had completely lost his mind in a haze of fury, anger, and inevitably, need for anything he hated on that man. “Happy now?” he breathed against their lips, as Grantaire finally shut his bewildered eye and his hands reached for the fabric of Enjolras’ sweater. “I hate what you do to me. I hate it with passion.”

 

“I love how you hate what I do much then. Because I love everything about you. And your passion most of all,” was Grantaire’s breathless reply, before Enjolras shut his mouth again, two heartbeats becoming a crazy drum fight as chests became as much pressed together as they could and hands needily pulled locks and massaged napes and hearts raced and hands ached.

 

And before any of them could sober up from their very own drunkenness, Enjolras’ mouth was pressed on Grantaire’s collarbone and was tasting the perfect, sweaty skin, causing the drunkard to throw his head back and moan, “Jesus Christ, fuck!”

 

“Why don't you try to use a name of someone you believe in?” Enjolras asked between the frantic dance of his tongue and teeth on the other man’s neck. "Which is highly unlikely, but still."

 

“Enjolras, fuck!” moaned Grantaire, using the only name he believed in, sliding one hand inside Enjolras’ sweater, and the other between the stunning golden locks. “How can this be happening?”

 

Enjolras raised his eyes and faced Grantaire, breathing raggedly. “I don’t know the answer. Ask yourself, ask your witty, drunken self what the fuck you’ve been doing to me, ask yourself how you always manage to drive me crazy.”

 

It was Enjolras’ turn to moan, as Grantaire’s hand reached for his throbbing erection between them and rubbed it painfully beneath the black jeans. He took a break to get rid of his leather jacket and then of Enjolras’ red sweater, and the latter struggled with his own green hoodie and grey t-shirt, until they were only in their jeans. Enjolras forcefully broke the kiss because the distraction of Grantaire’s body was massive for his hungry lips, a body so imperfect yet heavenly under his fingertips which travelled over his thin ribs and rested on the V on his abdomen, finding a sensitive spot and causing Grantaire to flinch and sigh in pleasure, as Enjolras’ hot tongue trailed circles on his nipple. He quickly unbuttoned Grantaire’s jeans, and his hand slid in his boxers, taking him in his hand. He was hard and throbbing and Enjolras licked his lips in approval to the sight. The man threw his head back, exposing all the glory of his sweaty throat, and moaned. “Oh, Apollo!”

 

He had looked so helpless, so lost and shaking that Enjolras most definitely didn’t expect Grantaire’s palms to suddenly be pressed on his chest and push him back, and on a wooden table. The blond man climbed on the table and allowed the other to worship his beautiful body. Grantaire’s fingertips longed for every single inch of the heated marble skin beneath them, of the pulsating throat, the firm chest and the slightly toned abdomen, his lips and tongue followed shortly after, and Enjolras, with a pounding pulse in his head, watched him fall on his knees when his tongue reached the waistband of his jeans. His fingers got tangled around dark curls as rapid fingers, as if they belonged to a sober man, untied his belt and unzipped his jeans.

 

It was Enjolras’ turn to throw his head back and moan in complete ecstasy as Grantaire’s wet mouth was around himself, sucking him off torturously, with painfully slow movements, driving him out of his mind. As Grantaire’s tongue worked miraculously on his cock, he couldn’t help but wonder what had kept him from that man all this time, and what had brought them to such a state as the present one, how could such things happen, how was he allowing the cynic to be the one he needed so intimately, when he hadn’t had any interaction with either a woman or a man for so long, when he hadn’t cared for such thoughts at all, how was it able to crave for no one but the horrible cynic who always pushed him off his limits, how was it possible to find heaven against his hands and his thin chapped lips and the uneven breathing on his own skin?

 

Grantaire pulled his mouth away. “Do you still hate me?” he asked in a deep voice, his blue eyes raised and fixed on Enjolras’ half closed ones.

 

“Don’t stop… please…”

 

“Tell me. Do you still hate me?”

 

“I… I never said I hated you…” breathed Enjolras helplessly, with difficulty, “all I know is that I hate the way you mess with my heartbeat at the moment, I hate the way I feel in your glorious mouth, I hate that I have forgotten how to breathe, I hate how that passion you have inside you can be used for no other conviction, I hate to know what you are capable of doing but refuse to believe, I hate that I do things I can’t control, I hate how I fuckin’ _need_ you so much.”

 

Grantaire’s tongue trailed circles on the head of Enjolras’ cock that made the revolutionary gasp and seek for some oxygen, as his heart raced even more and the room started spinning around me. “Say it again, then.”

 

“I need you,” said Enjolras, nails digging in Grantaire’s shoulder, “I want you, all of you, I need you _inside me._ ”

 

Grantaire didn’t need to hear that a second time. He pulled his mouth away. Their movements were clumsy and erratic as they slid out of the remaining garments and, after helping with his fingers, Grantaire thrust himself inside Enjolras and against the same table of the café pamphlets and papers with speeches and plans had been spread upon. Enjolras could only faintly think of how lucky his laptop was to have been placed on a chair a few moments ago, before bottles of beer started to shake dangerously and spill a few remaining drops on the wood.

 

The rest was completely lost in a haze of grunting, irregular breathing, synchronized sweaty hips moving together against the hard wood and unsynchronized, unsteady heartbeats but the beating was one, the throbbing of muscles had became one, as everything fitted so perfectly, every curve embraced the other’s figure in a way which made it inevitable to assume that they were longing for it for years, the harmony was that of a dance with already practiced steps, skin expecting the other’s touch and welcoming it thankfully when it arrived, murderous heat as they discovered each other for the first time, yet feeling as they were made to be there. Grantaire had dreamed of it numerous times in the past, but not even in his wildest dreams was Enjolras’ skin so warm against his palms, his hips so tight around him, his throat so sweaty and pulsating and _lively_ against his bitter, cynical lips.

 

Grantaire’s hands were on Enjolras’ cock, and he leaned his heard forward, on his shoulder. Damp blond and dark curls were now an incorrigible mess, as he whispered in the Greek God’s ear, after nibbling on it: “The only thing I hate about you, Apollo, is how everything on you, every single drop of blood in your veins, every drop heated with hatred for myself, is utterly and insanely loved by me, for the sole fact that such a heated feeling for me exists, whatever the kind of that feeling may be,” his palm moved and rested on the revolutionary’s chest, feeling his heart beating frantically against it. “The fact that this heart might be occupied with my being in any damn way, makes me love every fuckin’ thing about you even more fervently. I could die now, I could die as I am for now I know I am permitted in this heart, in any way possible, despised and maybe unwanted, but still I am permitted.”

 

They spoke no more though Grantaire could swear that a slight, drunkenly delirious smile had appeared on Enjolras’ fierce face. The smile was not ended when they collapsed, sighing and moaning, palms pressed on the table, heads resting on shoulders, and hearts throwing their own revolution against shaking chests.

 

 


End file.
